


The Little Bird and the Dark Lord:

by VladimirHarkonnen (TheLightdancer)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27351160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightdancer/pseuds/VladimirHarkonnen
Summary: Arwen finds herself captive in Angband, a young Elleth just at the edge of adulthood....and experiencing the tender mercies of Morgoth Bauglir, or what passes for them.
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel/Túrin Turambar, Morgoth Bauglir/Arwen Undomiel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. The Dark Lord and the Little Bird:

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilya_Boltagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilya_Boltagon/gifts).



Arwen Undomiel had endured many things in a short life, things that her family had never imagined she would. Things that she could not have imagined nor anticipated that she would, either. She was entrapped, here, in Angband. Thirty years of running from Morgoth tapping into one of her most secret gifts, a set of shapeshifting broader than her family's usual pattern. Thirty years, ripping the arm off of one of his major Orc enforcers. She had seen _him_ beforehand, when he had come personally to see the ruin of Rivendell and cursed that the **_Blood of Melian has once more escaped me._**

Then the thing with the one arm had entrapped her when she had let herself briefly bathe in her true shape, savoring a moment of it, and brought her here. Now....

Now Arwen was stuck here, in Angband, nude as the day she was born, hands and feet held in strange chains. Sauron had died, at the end of the Second Age in a terrible cataclysm of fire. And then something had happened the next night, a darkness fell to Earth with eyes of fire and a terrible laughter and then seemingly nothing. Most had held that Sauron had put rather less of his power into the Ring than was supposed, and that it was the servant who had arisen again in a more terrible form, mind turned purely to vengeance and driven mad by the personal strike of the Allfather.

She knew. She knew exactly who had returned, and why.

He leaned over her, his own flesh bare, his gaze laviscious and leaving her feeling defiled and befouled merely by those blazing lights withering into her skin in a manner that made her fidget.

_**Ah, little bird, my Luthien. Your flesh has accursed you from beauty. That which your kindred held most valuable, now something that has brought you here.** _

Morgoth was more horrible than any tale that she had imagined of him. It was not merely the casualness with which he could change size or shape, nor the immensity of the strength in his arms. Nor that he seemed half-stuck between the withered thing that had fallen from the sky and the full-fledged horror that had held the Valar to an equal level of force. No. It was not even that he had shrunk from the colossus that had loomed over her to a size merely the size of one and a half full grown Elves, though much broader and bulkier, his right hand caressing her breasts with a grip of mocking tenderness, nor that his lips and teeth were on her neck. She cried, she couldn't not cry, the fear that Morgoth's fangs would rip into her throat and send her to Mandos, forever ruined and lost to damnation and to its suffering became overpowering. 

Often he would beat her if he felt her tears but at present she heard the silky tectonic thunder of his laughter in her ear and smelled the cold charnel stench of his breath.

 ** _Yes......_** he purred, right hand massaging her breasts, Arwen's hips moving slightly against her will, her body starting to flush with a pleasure meant to be shared only between lovers or the married. That made her weep more, for the thought that she was forever damned, that she had adjusted to this meant that she hoped her family was, as she'd seen, utterly and truly dead. They would hate her for this.

Morgoth moved back, and she knew what was coming when it pressed against her wetness, groaning in shame, a whimpered "No" echoing from her mouth.

**_You are mine, little bird. Just as the first who bore your face taunted me with being. She bared her body and danced before my court._ **

_Once more Arwen saw into the deeper past, Lúthien Tinúviel standing before the court of Morgoth in the old days. She saw her ancestor in her full glory and it was like seeing her full-grown, not just in the earliest phases of adulthood but come to her full dignity and ageless appearance. Luthien was bare between her legs where Arwen was only partially so on Morgoth's whim (for now, he would probably want her shaven again whenever it suited his cruel whim to order it and to have it done before him and the fullness of his court). Her body was more buxom than that of Arwen, her smile hauntingly a mirror of Arwen's as it had been when Rivendell had been the Last Homely House and not a ruin of broken bodies and blood and entrails and shattered homes.  
_

_'Lord Melkor the Mighty-Arising,' she heard Luthien's voice speaking with a spell that enhanced her sultriness and her beauty, the court seeming to freeze into an image and a swirling maelstrom of awe and desire, Luthien leaning to her side slightly and spreading her legs just enough._

_'Long have I wished to see he who was meant to be King of All Ea, with Arda where his throne was, his siblings his servants. I have sought nothing less than to gaze upon your beauty and now that I see it, I wish to give you a gift in turn. The sight of mine, and O so much more.' Her hips moved in a wanton motion, as if she was indulging in the very things Arwen had learned only in the cruelest fashions, at the hands and the tongue of Morgoth Bauglir, at the terrible thing that even now was moving inside of her as she was caught in the audience, watching, chained by the side of Melkor and bared in full._

_Luthien licked her lips, her eyes seeming to almost glow with a hypnotic potency the mirror of Morgoth's own._

**_And the mortal you came here with?_ **

_'Men place such foolish pride on the idea that sensuality reshapes a woman's very being, Lord Melkor. He will enjoy more being with a woman trained by Melkor in the carnal arts than a fearful virgin.'_

_Morgoth grinned and leaned forward, watching as she began to move with grace and a Song echoed of such power that time and worse than time could not fully dim its impacts. Arwen, entrapped beneath Morgoth heard it, and it poured down like rain into each and every corner of Angband with a surpassing beauty ugly and defiled by the maneuvers and the ways that Luthien's body moved, the way she mated with an invisible lover in the most debauched fashion, her tongue lolling out in a lewder expression. There were twirls and leaps of a beauty and refinement that seemed out of sync with the rest and Arwen could not quite process why, only that this gap existed._

_This was the routine she'd found herself in in this first year of her captivity, watching Lúthien cavort like a shameless horrid thing that had the flesh of an Elf yet seemed to exist in a realm of decadence and excess. The very beauty of certain of her motions and the song made it clear that she could have been more, and instead she saw intimate glimpses imprinted on her eyes, parts of Luthien she had never wished to see and yet remained._

_Laughter rippled, low and tectonic-_

And she was back in Angband, Morgoth's body moving in her own and her body rewarding him with wetness, with her moans coerced from her, with the way this pleasure coursed and fueled and rippled through her veins. 

_**Ah, little bird,**_ cooed Morgoth. _**One has not lived until one has taken pleasure enhanced by the arts and my shares of the gifts of my brother the Shaper of Dreams and my sister the Weaver of Fate.**_ She whimpered again, this sound always a pleasing one to his ears, as Morgoth continued to move and their bodies, intertwined, slowly shifted into what she hated and feared and dreaded most. Where this twisted union of the flesh became something more, something worse. A union of souls, in its own right.

Her hands and feet were bound, her back scraped against the stone. There was magick in the enchantments that meant the stone at most gave her a sense of friction but it would not cut her unless her master wanted her cut.

Luthien's dance echoed in her mind even with the vision cut, the imagery of her ancestor and her mirror moving in the ways she knew her master sought for her to do so, to emulate. That her wrists and ankles bled or had chains of red to match the chains of metal did not matter. Even that she was clumsier did not, for the motions she moved with were those Morgoth himself had shown her, the baying and laughing howling of Orcs a further cut. They were not allowed to beyond touches, yet Morgoth was not averse to having her feel their hands on her, even their slipping fingers in her as a reminder that if she defied him, there would be worse.

Their souls met, one a shining thing of perfect power and perfect beauty, the other an empty thing of hatred and malice that could not tolerate in truth anything but itself on the good days and it never had good days. A small mote of light and endless flowing Emptiness, a hunger that could never be sated where light was drawn into it and turned into a fell mirror of itself. The mote of light shone against what was not Darkness, for Darkness itself was a creation of the Allfather and their ancestor Melian had been the Fae Queen of Shadows, whose Girdle had worked by a darkness that even its supposed master could never see through. Morgoth was Emptiness, the Nothingness behind reality, and in the face of this Nothingness-

He was close, she knew it, and she whimpered again and her light stuttered and failed and then there was a warmth, a sickly thing that flooded into her and she shook and screamed in denial with something of an animalistic tone to it. She had wanted to shift, to let her body take that shape that could let her slip away but she could not.

He slipped out of her then and strode over to her, and she knew what he wanted her to do, her mouth slipping open by fear of what he could and would have her do, and have done to her if he did not.

She risked the tender mercies of Thuringwethil, and rather than that, she let Morgoth slip his dick into her mouth, moving her mouth and head just enough to take him deeply, cleaning each and every trace of her own body and taking into herself the foulness that dripped from between his legs. He always wanted her to swallow it and she never felt more hatred of herself than when she complied, when she took the vileness that he did to her and, as she continued to do so, working slowly as he wished her to do, making it as noisy and (hating herself further) humming a partial fragment of Lúthien's old song in 'appreciation.'

Then the chains were unfastened and she remained with the shackles on her hands and feet, kneeling beside Morgoth as he showed her not the visions of Luthien, but those of his torment of a dark-haired being who was the son of one of the last of the Avari of the North, a being whose own body burned with a terrible lust akin to her own, and whose motions and jerking frenzies showed her a thing she knew intimately with what crusted between her legs and on her face.

In the end, the Quendi were not the pure creations of Eru, and in the face of the Nothingness of that which sought to obliterate reality and reshape it in its image, all would fall. Fall as she had fallen. A single tear dripped down her cheek at first but she swiftly wiped it off. She could not dare to cry, and she could only know that this was where her life had come to, and dared to hope, secretly, that one day it would end. That he would grow tired of her and she would fade in the Void, a spirit too weak for its emptiness, and there find the only redemption she could hope to claim.


	2. Dreaming Dreams No Mortal Ever Dared to Dream Before:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arwen awakens from a nightmare in a room in Rivendell, and she seeks solace in the arms of a lover who like her seemingly has returned from the past and the realm of the dead.

_Morgoth's laughter rippled as he leaned down beside her body smeared with fluid traces of him and the crusted rest of it leaving her cheeks stiffer than she had in truth ever imaging them being. Orange eyes burned with an eldritch star-hue, and her gaze remained spellbound. He was clad in his armor again, kneeling beside her with one knee on the ground, risen to his true and colossal size._

**_This is how you will always be, Little Bird. Forever mine, bodies and souls joined._ **

_Laughter rippled out again-_ and Arwen awoke, in a thing that was her bed, again, and in truth. Somehow, she had escaped a second time and in various shapes had crept her way down from the north and its frozen snows and firey Hells, skulking her way to Rivendell in a journey she had come to recall only partially, a memory she had come to savor. It had ended in what for a long time had been one of two memories left to her. Running in the woods, wrists and ankles bloodied from shackles, wearing torn rags that had been taken, in the event, from a slain Elleth who hadn't need them any more as her changing shape did not allow her the luxury of clothing that appeared and reappeared with the transformation (an element that she was quite sure most stories, bar the most salacious told with a sufficient helping of intoxicating drinks omitted for reasons). 

That had ended, in what was now a time ago, though how long ago she was not sure.

She looked to see her door open and a tall and bulky figure with dark hair and dark eyes. Part of her felt a sharp pang of emotions that roiled through her, the thought that she welcomed this as a taste that _he_ had shaped in her, but she knew that was and was not so. She had seen visions of a future that could never have been. A reunited Kingdom, and a handsome figure of the Land of Andor reborn, last of the true kindred, Isildur's mirror in shape and Ar-Pharazon's in power had he fallen to darkness. A son, with hair to match her mother's and in his own way inheriting her gifts in fullness, though within four generations they would endure in smaller things and in the basis of legends of shifting shape, and in glimpses of prophecies. Daughters, two blonde, one her very mirror in image. A future that could have been, and would never be, because she had not proven worthy of it, perhaps. Or perhaps whatever hellish thing had brought _him_ back and with him the ruin of Gondor and Arnor meant that with the passage of the last Numenoreans, so went any futures they could have created.

Instead, there was him, tall and swarthier, but clearly of the house of Thalion. Clad in his own nudity, his gaze no less a thing of total immersion than the monster that had held her. He was stout, in truth, more than muscled but he was immensely strong, there were very few among mortals who were stronger, though even the weakest of the Ainur in their flesh-shapes could have swatted him like a fly. Abstractly she knew entirely well that it was one of the things that drew her to him, that he was like her future that could have been but distinct. He was bulky and stout while tall, her love who would never have been was lither, more leathery, honed by the world of nature and by long and bloody service in the wars of the Great Lands.

His gaze upon her was drawn, of course, to her own nudity, as her nightmare had moved her sheet down halfway to her stomach, though she was utterly un-self conscious about it. They had lain together many times, after all, so there was no reason to hide, or to feign modesty. His gaze was possessive in its own right, though not in the way the monster in that fortress had been. That was a gaze of the Hunger, of the desire to create that would never be granted, of the desire to will destruction until but one will and one entity remained in a world of ashes, all else defiled, and then howled in bedlam fury for the ashes were still not of its own making. It was the sense, or so she still told herself, of love, of understanding. Of a mind that needed to exorcise his own demons as much as she needed to exorcise hers, and like her chose this method.

He was half-hard, and she knew that if she said no, or did so with her eyes she would be able to see him go away, and that too drew her to him. Instead of saying no, she licked her lips, her eyes traversing him and she saw a curt, firm, even arrogant look to his face. The look of a man who had tamed an Elf, though she was 'only' in appearance a youth, she was in truth in age seemingly forty years his senior. Or did that even hold true to a legend called out of the fate of Men and sent back to the world? Most in Rivendell dd not understand the reappearance of the children of Hurin, nor other legends like Beren and Luthien.

That was a rumored possibility with the coming of the end-times, yet it was held to be the servant and not the master who had arisen. Even her father believed it.

Arwen knew better, so she had the fewest problems, as she showed by moving the sheets further down, and lounging on her side, her hair draped down her body, hiding her breasts from the hungry gaze of her lover.

Her right hand, scarred though it was and somewhat thicker than the other as one of the few truly lingering traces of the evils done to her, twirled her hair, baring the nipple of her right breast to his sight, a small amused smirk crossing her lips when he went from half-hardness to full hardness.

"Hello there," she purred, her voice lower and more sultry than she would have been able to do otherwise, one of the small cases where Angband had left and would always leave a lasting trace. "See someone you like?"

Turin made a kind of throaty growl after stepping back to her door to ensure that it was locked, striding toward her with a confident tread that made her flush with excitement, licking her own lips. He arrived toward her, and looked to her for a permission she easily and eagerly granted, moving toward....that part of her, between her legs. 

Her hands moved slightly, grasping one of her pillows and her sheets, her knuckles turning white as Turin's hands crept up her legs, from her calves to her thighs, and she heard the rapt breath he took and felt its warmth, fidgeting slightly. Part of her felt warm, pleased, to think that she could have that impact on another. He knew what had been done to her. He knew who had done it, yet he looked at her with a warmth that flooded through her and let her feel as something it was hard to accept otherwise. Beautiful, loved, wanted. His lips went there, kissing around her labia, soft and slow, making a point to emphasize each and every one of her folds, something that made her tremble and move slightly, taking her pillow to muffle the sounds.

He was slow and loving and attentive, making a point to note how much he enjoyed her body, and she quivered, letting herself yield to the roiling maelstrom of electric heat in her body, actually enjoying this.

_He always chained her so that she had her arms and legs spread, for her taking her own pleasure was a thing for him to watch her do, to make her do before him and his court to burn away her shame. When he wanted to take her himself, she was not allowed to do it, and whatever pleasure she had was a consequence, dreadful though it was, of the ways his gifts of the mind and the soul could take the heart and the desires of a person and twist them against them. Chained, bare, watching his clothes seem to become intangible and fall from his body in a casual display of magic, his scarred cheek and blackened hands working with his limping motions to emphasize just who he was, and that even death did not undo some things._

_With those gifts she was wet, only a little, yet to his keen sight it was as if she felt a tempest of pleasure that no body could truly feel save in the more salacious tales told by those who had never truly known the ways of the flesh._

**_Luthien reborn indeed, as lost to your pleasures as she is to hers._ **

The moment passed as her peak came closer and closer, her hips moving in unity with Turin's mouth and his tongue, one of his hands wrapped around her waist. Her knuckles were white, her teeth biting the pillow more fiercely, body tense and shuddering slightly. It felt _intense_ as it never did with him. _He_ only allowed pleasures if it could be made a thing of warped cruelty. Turin made sure that she would always do so at least once, often up to three or more times. Only the dark-haired human woman she knew the pleasures of sometime spent more time on her own pleasures in that way, and then for a moment she felt that peak hit, pillow slipping and a soft moan echoing, her body moving with a soft set of motions as her orgasm hit, and Turin drank with skill that made her wonder if he had been reborn knowing this, or how he had learned such skill.

He leaned up, still hard, and his gaze was on her as she looked at him with a smile that was relaxed and even slightly vacuous, a single deep sigh echoing from her with a note of contentment.

_Morgoth had her on her front, after a fashion, bent so that she almost seemed to crawl. She **hated** this, but he knew that, and saved it for the times he wanted to either punish her or to 'celebrate' the ruin of another place and home of her people. With something of her grandmother's, broken and shattered, in front of her she had to keep her eyes on it. An heirloom her grandmother had had from her mentor, one of the things she valued most as a memory of better times and better days. Broken, a crude and monstrous glyph of Melkor's make on it, as she couldn't resist a cry of agony as even with lubrication he always made sure this hurt. That part of her she had never dared to imagine this way, given what was supposed to leave it. It hurt, feeling him quite literally stab into her like a sword, and he laughed, rejoicing in her pain and in her shame, and the sight of her broken gaze at her grandmother's shattered tiara and the fears that flooded through her. _

Turin slipped into her with kindness, always gentle, giving her time to adjust, their hands meeting in this. It was a thing that she had welcomed then and had become part of their own private dance, the way their souls and their bodies met. Hands that had slain a dragon with a sword of metal from beyond the stars gripped a scarred and thickened hand and one as both had once been since her birth with a grip of surpassing gentleness, fingers intertwined, as she wrapped her legs around him, sounds leaving her mouth. Moans low and throaty, almost purring. 

Then he was fully within her and started to move, lowering himself carefully. Always careful, and unlike other lovers, there was no aggression, no moments of feeling squashed, no instances where bodyparts struck flesh at awkward angles. A swordsman and a hunter of monsters who never lost his grace nor his focus nor his skill, that treated her body in its own way like something to hunt and to savor. His motions were careful, and she got the feeling that his own demons influenced parts of this, along with a name he had cried twice, and then cried at a different level after. She couldn't object to that, it wasn't seeing her that way but being lost to memories. She was merely thankful none of the names of the colossus of the north had slipped her own lips.

His body moved and his lips met hers and she eagerly kissed him, their kisses not a competition nor a conquest, but a thing of equality, and of _choice._ That mattered. To choose, to let herself relax, to be wanted like this....it mattered very, very greatly.

**_In my kingdom, all that are within it are mine to shape and to reshape at will,_ ** _said a monster in the shape of her own father, one of Morgoth's most twisted games. Her father or her grandmother, two shapes used most frequently. He relished this, this sense of betrayal, even if she could not believe that truth for her father's eyes were not orange suns that blazed with eldritch fire, and her father's mouth was not full of fangs that could bite metal and sever it cleanly. Her father's body did not ripple from lithe Elven to hulking Vala if concentration slipped but slightly, and her father's Ring she never saw on the hands of the shape. And yet it was her father who was within her, tied as she was in this position, his hands, after a fashion, along and around her body, moving with strength that made her flesh ripple slightly._

**_And you get to know what your mother knew. Imagine that, if your flesh should carry a child sired on you in this form._** _He grinned. **Perhaps it would be born with your father's face and my would that not be a scandal, eh?**_

She gripped her legs around Turin more firmly, her hands clawing slightly at his back. She was careful. Wantonly making others bleed was _his_ way, and she did not dare do that to another, especially not to him. His lips were further down, now, and she gasped in a delicious sense of pleasure-pain when he lightly bit at her nipples. It was just the right kind, a kind that felt natural, not like the cruelties inflicted on her in the north. She had the pillow in her mouth again to muffle the louder sounds, moving herself just enough to grasp it with her teeth, and it helped as she felt that warmth surging and wanted to scream such that all in Rivendell would hear. 

_A thing that was and wasn't her grandmother straddled her, wielding what was either a thing of wood tied to her or a cock that was....massive, suited more to a Valar. Yet the eyes were orange and gleamed and the voice was not her grandmother's, which was low in itself and had a bit of a rasp to it. It was his voice, and the ways her lips moved were his. He could simulate her father better, for her father was male, obviously. In truth this was the illusion that endured least even at the time but it made it no less traumatizing to see her own grandmother using her in that rough and brutal fashion, fingernails shifting to claws and a fanged mouth smiling._

**_Dear Artanis I have no doubt has done this often. She was called Man-Maiden because she could have any tender Elleth meant to be as maidens are at her beck and call if she wished. Her eyes, her voice, her charisma....oh, they hiked up those dresses and yielded to it. Now, she can say after a fashion that she has taken you._ **

_Her not-grandmother's face was against her and a forked tongue slid into her mouth and explored it in ruthless skill and malevolent fury, a whine echoing from her lips.  
_

Her second orgasm hit as Turin moved his hips carefully and she, much less so, bit his shoulder. Not too hard, because she couldn't focus past a point as her body stiffened, slackened, and the heat that coursed through her meant that she was too lost to her pleasures to think too deeply beyond what she knew. This sensation was wonderful, but then it always was, and it would always be. Turin kept moving, and his motions lost some of their skillfulness in terms of carefulness, and she had to move slightly to prevent their heads butting together at a point but this too was a pleasure. To lose control rather than to have control taken, of her own will. 

_The face of her ancestress leered at her with orange eyes._

**_Little bird,_** _the nightingale purred. **Such a pathetic imitation of me.**_

_She was on her stomach, now, not tied in that position, for which she thanked the Lords of the West for small favors. Delicate-feeling hands that burned with heat and withered with cold moved along her body, cupping her there and then working the fingers in with an amusement amplified by the ways her body reacted._

**_Sing for_ ** _**me....**._ _and the sounds came out when she did not wish them to, lost in the betrayal of her own flesh and the terrible ways a body could betray such things._

Her third orgasm came within a few minutes of her second and this time she felt him throbbing inside of her and pulled him to her more tightly, a small glimpse of a future that could have been dancing in her eyes and then fading. He grunted himself in a deeper note not too unlike her own, and she cooed as she felt a warmth of smaller amount but far better feel. 

The shadows of Angband receded in a room that smelled of sex and a tangle of limbs, a daughter of the Third Age and the greatest son of the First felt contentment and peace. Monsters might live anew in the North, but together, the sorrows that clung to them vanished, and that was enough.


End file.
